Love, like this

Take it off. But do it slowly. Be cheeky, be sexy…feel, tease, look deep into those eyes. Tantalize. Torture.

First She appears, like a newborn, wrapped in a bathrobe.

The momentary fluff. The momentary innocence. The momentary wash of excitement.

You sit in your armchair. Motionless. Eyes tracing the beautiful contours. You are enraptured.

It leaves you paralyzed. It takes your whole attention, your whole self. Just for that moment, which you think would last.

She advances. Her steps carefully calculated. You watched hard as her silky calves peek from beneath the robes.

Everything is beautiful. Even the smallest, most insignificant thing makes a whole lot of difference.

She stands, legs apart, at a distance close enough but yet you cannot touch. The belt loosens. From her shoulders, the white wash of innocence slips.

The lofty, the unreachable always seem more enticing, more attractive.

Clad in red, She brushes her smooth skin against yours. Your heart races. Warm body against you, soft, gentle but firm, reassuring. Your heart races.

When obtained, we grow excited. We crave more. We don’t want it to stop.

She guides you - unraveling the forbidden, the secret. You dive in for some passion. She smirks and leaves you, at a distance close enough but yet you cannot touch.

It drags you in, and leaves you hanging. Then pushes you away, still leaving you, hung, tighter, higher.

Bare bodied, You take her. Your breaths deep, heavy. Together. She moans and arches her back in utter sensuality. Your eyes close, eyelids flutter. You bite the corner of your lip. Sated.

Somehow there is pleasure in the pain. The highs of the lows keeps it buoyant. The thrill. The need. The desire. The plateau.

She digs her nails into your back as you enjoyed her - warm and moist. The marks are left. Traces of blood. You still take it in.

We don’t feel the pain. Pleasure overrides it. We overrate pleasure so as to cover for why we hurt.

You lay there beside her, watching. Just watching. Close enough.

Then we realise when it’s all over. When the innocence, icing-on-top-of-the-cake melt away, we can only lay beside Her and watch Her leave.

Like a cold breeze She lingers. Your skin still tingles. Traces. But you lay there, still. Let the moment wash over. But taking in enough to let it live in you.

Love, like this.